A Study In Double Dating
by ImpossibleElement
Summary: Cause: Sherlock makes a mistake at begrudgingly trying to follow Mycroft's advice. Effect: He accidentally encourages John to go out with an intern from the Yard. Results: The only solution is to crash said date and make John realise his mistake. Obviously.
1. Detective's Best Friend

A Study In Double Dating

Chapter 1: Detective's Best Friend.

It had to be a woman. Obviously.

New Scotland's Yard had a new intern for the day, and it just had to be a woman. Commonly, it wouldn't really matter to Sherlock one way or the other, if it wasn't for the fact that said woman had not ceased flirting with a certain doctor, and she was taking his attention away from a certain detective. How was Sherlock supposed to amaze John with his incredible wit and fascinating intellect if he didn't even had the ability to hold his blogger's admiration for a minute?

The brunette finished rambling on his deductions, not even sparing a breath of silence for the rest of the Yard to catch up. As soon as he was done explaining exactly how a math teacher had managed to completely exsanguinate his wife's new paramour with just a set of tweezers, he went to stand beside John, catching the final half of a conversation to which he hadn't been eavesdropping since the beginning.

"Perhaps you could accompany me." A lock of honey-blonde hair was twirling around her slender finger in a flirtatious way; and judging by the state of her nails she was only looking for a man focused and stable enough to appease her mother's insistence in her settling down. Probably inviting him to a high profile social event involving dinner and some sort of publicity stunt. Easy to get your picture taken and then have proof to show your family next time they come visit from the country. It was painfully obvious.

He decided he could spare his friend the tediousness of the date, and the embarrassment of declining. Honestly, people could be so stupid at not saying "no" just to not seem rude. "John is obviously not going to want-" However, he was interrupted before he could finish his sentence.

"It would be my pleasure." John answered using that tone of voice he always partook while trying to woo a lady. Why in the world would John want to spend an evening dining among some pretentious dim-witted aristocrats?

"I was invited due to my dancing, and I need a plus one." That's right, she was a part-time Jazz dancer with hopes of becoming something big in choreography after she finished her delayed dance studies at uni. A major and internship at something as criminology the only thing that could convince her mother of letting her pursue something as "ridiculous" as dancing for money once she had graduated.

"Are you talking about the Gala of Talent hosted in Kensington?" Another member of the team, whose name had already been deleted from the detective's mind, asked in awe and the dancer giggled. "Mate, that's huge." He finished now turning to John.

"That sounds lovely." John asserted. Are these people really interested in all this? Because the idea didn't seem the least bit appealing to the boffin, who already had a case and the catching of a murderer scheduled. Which reminded him, John technically already had plans for the weekend, and if pursuing a maniac to stop him for killing more people wasn't a good excuse for calling off a date Sherlock didn't know what was.

The doctor must have remembered this at seeing the detective standing expectantly next to him, because after sighing he turned around and said. "Actually, I'm sorry but I think I'm going to have to pass," He started nervously. "Because of the case, and you know, Sherlock and I are partners."

After this, there was a pregnant silence passing through the whole crime scene as everyone took in what he had said. John, at first, didn't seem to grasp what got everyone so surprised, but a few seconds later his brain caught up with the situation and he shifted uncomfortably in his feet and rushed to minimise the damage done. "I mean, at- at crime solving. We solve crimes, like this. Like this case." Him stuttering did not make the situation less awkward, and the detective could only gloat in the fact that Lestrade seemed as relieved in the fact that John was going to be available to help solving the case as he was.

"Don't worry I understand," She gave a half smile and a strange look directed to Sherlock like it was all his fault. But it wasn't, John Watson preferred bringing a criminal behind bars than going out on a date which would have been boring anyway. That's just who John was. "Maybe after the case is done." You didn't need to be a consulting detective to deduce she was highly disappointed.

John swallowed thickly at the thought of having to turn down a lady in front of the whole team of Yarders. But he really shouldn't, she was a tedious woman after all, and they all were nosy idiots whose opinion shouldn't matter to John in the slight-less. Instead, he said, "Yes, maybe."

"Well, yes. We better wrap everything up." Lestrade said trying to ease the tension, and John seemed thankful for it. Which is completely irrational since he had nothing to be ashamed about. "We'll get this to the labs and you do whatever is it you do to figure out where the dirt came from." He said now addressing Sherlock. Couldn't he at least see that it had been from his own garden? Today's idiocy should be a record.

He only scoffed and turned around. "Come along, John. We have mud to examine." He walked away not bothering to wait and see if he was being followed. John would catch up, he always did. At the corner of his eye, he saw Jessika, the dancer, slip her number inside John's shirt breast pocket and ask him to call her once the case was over. Sherlock felt a distinct feeling at the gut of his stomach, but it obviously was just the thrill of the chase. After all, the game was on!


	2. Home Not Alone

Chapter 2: Home Not Alone.

The case proved to be disappointing in the end. Instead of a chase, they only got the murderer turning himself in to the police and confessing everything. Sherlock, therefore, should be in what Mrs. Hudson would call " _one of his moods_ " and John would address as " _you're-being-a-little-shit-and-I-need-to-go-out-in-order-not-to-strangle-you_ ". Except he wasn't. He didn't particularly know why, but he was feeling surprisingly good since the day before.

Even though he did regret making John go out to buy some milk, he sometimes enjoyed the peace and silence of the flat, no annoying noises and no one saying a considerable amount of idiocy, which of course meant that like if he had a radar, Mycroft had to turn up and ruin everything.

"Hello, dear brother." He could never be bothered to knock, the fat git. He strode across the room and sat in front of Sherlock in John's chair, the detective glared at him because of this. "You seem happy." He stated.

"Yes, well. I was." He took up his violin nonchalantly. "Then you showed up." He smiled a bit without being able to contain himself. After he regained composure (0.04 seconds after) he continued glaring as if nothing had happened, but of course Mycroft caught it. He raised his eyebrows and took on that look which could only mean that he was deducing Sherlock and had found exactly what he was looking for. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I hope you're grateful." He said mysteriously, and the sentence was clearly loaded with meaning the musician had yet to decipher. He hated when his brother was one step ahead.

"Of what exactly?" He asked petulantly while plucking into tune one of the strings, he knew how the British Government hated that. The man in front of him made an exasperated sound, as if he was dealing with a child, but then again, Sherlock had never seen his brother without that look an his face.

"You must be aware of the reason why yesterday Dr. Watson turned down his invitation to that party." And at that he had his brother intrigued. He did not anticipated this topic, what could Mycroft possibly want discussing what was clearly none of his business. He probably only wanted his blogger to go to the party to bring him some cake.

"How do you know about it?" Seriously, the fat git could not be spying on him while at a crime scene, how did he managed to know about John's intentions, or about the event at all? There must be someone feeding him this information, and the next time he saw Gabriel Lestrade he was going to get a whole deduction of his wife's affair in return for his troubles.

"I was invited, but of course I will not be of attendance for I have a more important matter which requires my supervision," If John or Mrs. Hudson could enter the sitting room in that instant and get him out of his misery, it would be lovely. "Your doctor, on the other hand, has other... incentives." He trailed off, as if waiting for Sherlock to fill the void. Why must his brother always insist on being this intrusive?

"Do pray tell me what are they." Slow death would be a preferable destiny than sitting here, and listen to the ginger man drone on about what he thought was going on, because he probably just couldn't grasp the concept that John had found the lady as tedious as she was.

"Surely you must have noticed the signs by now." He had this smile across his face, taunting that he knew a secret of which Sherlock was still ignorant.

"Sings? What signs?" He absentmindedly stopped tuning his precious Stradivarius, choosing instead to search for answers in his brother's face.

"Everyone is well aware that you and Dr. Watson posses romantic feelings for each other. Except of course, for you and Dr. Watson." He explained slowly. Sherlock let out a huff of air and scoffed at the idea.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." He said, and if the denial came a bit too quickly, it did not mean it was less real.

"Don't you?" His brother asked, and the detective could not find a course or direction in which to take the conversation away from where it was headed. He had no intention of discussing this preposterous subject with Mycroft of all people.

"Where are you going with this?" Suddenly being sitting down was not active enough, so he stood and went to pick up his oldest friend from the mantle.

"Maybe you should consider indulging in the pedestrian way of going with these sort of...situations." He raised his chin and looked pointedly at his little brother. The detective did everything in his power not to look back.

"Meaning?" The skull was looking a bit murky, maybe he should do something to get Mrs. Hudson to take it and then convince her to give it back. It somehow always returned good as new, well, as new as a eighty year old human skull could look.

"Ask him out." He deadpanned, and the detective stilled his movements for a second before resuming his inspection of Billy.

"We always go out, Mycroft. We work together." You could tell the great Mycroft Holmes did not do this often. After all, giving brotherly advice was not a pastime he enjoyed in the least. But sometimes Sherlock could be so considerably thick, right now being a perfect example.

"I meant a date, Sherlock." This time, the boffin did turned around to look at his brother in the eye, neither of them saying a thing, but both knew exactly what was going on inside of the younger genius. The government official chose to pretend he didn't, though; and the detective to pretend he believed he had him fooled.

After sitting down on his chair once more, Sherlock finally found words to answer the previous statement. "No." He said.

"Very well," The ginger sighed and stood up. "As always a pleasure talking to you, little brother." He started walking to the door, ready to leave. When he turned around to share with his brother one last thought. "He was invited to a Gala that most people spend most of their life wanting to attend. He would never pass down a lovely opportunity as that if it wasn't for you." And he left.

After assessing the situation for a few minutes Sherlock arrived to a conclusion, one that he never thought he would take. He was going to follow Mycroft's advise.


	3. Wrong Song

Chapter 3: Wrong Song.

Half past six found Mrs. Hudson sitting down on her kitchen table and John nibbling at some of the Blue Chews she had cooked for her boys. It was amazing how that woman could take so much from the tenants upstairs and still be willing to offer them blue biscuits. Sherlock came down the stairs and through the door. He absentmindedly grabbed a biscuit and took the seat across from John.

"John, I believe is imperative that we talk," He said as he took a small bite out of the pastry. "About you and I." This had the other two occupants of the table raising their heads so quickly the detective was expecting some sort of whiplash to appear in the morning. Honestly what was so surprising about him wanting to talk?

"About you and I, Sherlock?" He turned to look at their landlady expectantly. She made a half shrug and encouraged him to keep going with a nod of her head. "Sure, what's on your mind?"

"You should go to that party with Jessika." He said matter-of-factly. It was a good strategy, he was glad he had decided to do this. John and Mrs. Hudson, both looked at him discombobulated, as if they were not following his line of thought, which was not a turn up, they got that look most of the times he talked.

"How exactly is that about you and I?" His voice was getting a bit higher, so he was making an effort not to get mad. Anger at this conversation, what a fascinating reaction; he should do research in mixed reactions.

"If you desire to have a sexual relationship with her, don't let me stop you." That was a good one, smugness was one of the traits John found attractive in him, right? Otherwise why would he praise him whenever he was acting as a show off?

Mrs. Hudson, however, didn't appear to agree with him. As she gasped and said, "Stop talking." It wasn't as if the landlady was nominated for sainthood, she _had_ been married to a drug Lord after all. The detective could not see what the fuss was about.

"Shit, Sherlock! What the hell?" The Chew was officially abandoned shortly after, as he almost choked on it at his outburst. The lines in the blogger's forehead were starting to appear, which marked the beginning of an argument. Why was he reacting like this? Surely it should be obvious what he was doing.

"I mean, don't turn her down because of me." That should be clear enough for them to understand, but apparently he had over-estimated them, as the older woman repeated a slightly paraphrased version of her previous statement.

"Sherlock, I didn't say no to her because of you. And why are you suddenly taking interest in my personal relationships?" The waters seemed to have calmed down a bit, which was great since now they could finally make progress.

"Whatever you want to do in your intimacy is fine with me." He shrugged, and then proceeded to look the doctor in the eye, he should be able to get it by now.

"Oh, young man, please stop talking." The landlady tried, and stared at him with pleading eyes as if he was doing something bad. Wasn't she the first one that had seemed excited by the idea of the two of them together?

"You have my blessing to go out with whomever you choose, John." Sentiment, and showing him he could also care and acknowledge for his needs must have to be reassuring for his friend, in any moment now the soldier would be deciding in which restaurant he wanted to go to dinner. Although they all knew it would be Angelo's, he will be so proud.

"Oh for the love of God, Sherlock. Stop talking!" Mrs. Hudson raised her voice, act that had only happened a few times in the extent of all of their acquaintance. There was an impending silence that was filled with John's mobile going off. He cleared his throat and answered it.

He let whoever was on the other line speak before he answered. "Actually, the case is over." If he felt the need to impart this information it couldn't be Lestrade or anyone from his team, but it had to be someone who knew about it. So Jessika. The girl had impeccable timing, you've got to give her that, but that was the only thing that she was getting from any of the residents of 221B Baker Street. "So, if you still need a plus one..." Wait, why was John asking her that? they already had a date. Well, were in the process of planning one and would have already finished if she hadn't interrupted. "...Yes, Sherlock doesn't mind, not that I need his permission, mind you..." He couldn't understand the situation, What was John doing? "I'll pick you up at seven." And he hung up. He stood up and looked at the both of them, "Well, it looks like I'm going out with Jessika after all." And with that he bounced up the stairs to get ready.

This hadn't gone as was planned. How could he have read the event so wrongly? His blogger clearly was on the impression that Sherlock was encouraging him, pushing him even, to go out with her. As if he wanted her to have him, as if he didn't want John for himself. Stupid. Anger made its way through his veins, hot and scorching his limbs with rage. He turned to look at his landlady and she shook her head disapprovingly. So she had known John was surely taking this in a wrong light and did nothing. "Why didn't you warn me?" He nearly shouted at her in frustration.

She got up and grabbed a biscuit from the tray. Then, resumed to mildly aggressively stuff it in the detective's mouth and said, "I told you to stop talking, dear."


	4. Love Sick

Chapter 4: Love Sick

This was proving to be a real nightmare. John was gone, on his date with the insipid _Jessika_ , believing the detective was somehow comfortable with the idea of sharing the doctor's attention. And, as usual, it was all Mycroft's fault! Speaking of the fat devil, he seemed to not be satisfied with only ruining Sherlock's chances -if he had any- with John, but he had thus proceeded to abandon his official duties and nag at the detective with his presence. The only thing that could make this evening worse was if Anderson somehow decided to spend the afternoon at his and John's flat chatting and drinking tea. And before you even consider it, universe: No. That wasn't a challenge.

"John left here at precisely twelve to seven, it takes him eight minutes to reach her house, two minutes of her tedious small talk for him to realise she's the most boring individual on this planet, three minutes to make his excuses and leave, and another ten minutes to return because of the traffic. So how come it's already fourteen past seven and he's not here yet?" Sherlock muttered to himself pacing the floor of the sitting room. While Mycroft continued to observe him from his position in the doctor's chair.

"It clearly is because he is actually going to go through with the plans of the evening." He knew his remark would do nothing to appease his brother's mind, and in all honestly, he should know better than to appall him while he was distressed -or high for that matter-.

Sherlock spares a glare in his direction, annoyed with the ginger's meddling as Mrs. Hudson appeared in the threshold holding a tray of even more Blue Chews. How the hell did she manage to bake so many? "Oh dear, you just need to relax a bit. Maybe sit down here with your brother and have a biscuit." She said giving him her characteristic smile.

"The last thing I desire right now is to clog up my body with _biscuits_." He spat the last word as if it was the worst insult anyone could had ever given him. His landlady, however, shook her head and patted him in the back with comprehension, then continued to clatter about and set the tray of Chews in front of Mycroft. Maybe he will eye them and squirm at the desire of eating one all night, or maybe he would indulge and eat the whole tray. Serves him well. The detective, after deeming both scenarios highly satisfactory, sent a grateful half smile at the older lady sitting now on his leather chair.

"Dearest brother, it's hardly your place to sulk about that. After all, it was you who practically did everything but shove him out the door." Apparently Mycroft was going to go down swinging in the battle against his diet, for he kept trying to avoid seeing the biscuits and instead choose to shift his gaze across the room.

"I _told_ him he should go if he wanted to." But John should have seen right through it. He was supposed to say he didn't want to and spend the evening with him. Instead of with that insipid dancer.

"Then, what is the problem, dear?" Mrs. Hudson queried. The landlady should know, she was there, for God's sake! The problem was that his blogger had taken it all wrong and was now doing the exact opposite result his plan was designed to deliver.

After what seem like a year, but might as well have been around four seconds, he answered barely audibly. "I didn't want him to." Sherlock's bottom lip was not sticking out like if he was a toddler. He had long since stopped being a child and he was not acting like one, despite his brother's insistence otherwise. "Specially if he was going to be there for more than," He checked his wrist watch. "28 minutes."

The British Government sighed, clearly exasperated. He was not used to dealing with things like this, and neither was Sherlock, reason why this plan was turning out to be a complete disaster. "What if he was kidnapped? It would explain the delay, and we haven't heard a thing about Moriarty in a few weeks." The detective knew it was a long shot, but at least the possibility gave him an excuse to call the doctor and check.

He took his phone out of his dressing gown and was about to hit number one on his speed dial when his brother stalled him with his umbrella. "If your doctor were missing, I would know by now, brother. You're not contacting John on his mobile."

Mycroft looked like he'd rather be anywhere else but there, his brother couldn't fathom why wasn't he. "Fine." He muttered.

Resigned, he flung himself in the coach, and fished for his phone again. He started dialling. "You're not calling the venue either." The older man said from his position in front of the fire.

"Piss off, Mycroft." He was sure he could find the number on the internet if he typed in the right words.

"Your brother's right, Sherlock. If you bother him, he won't be happy," Started the landlady, who suspiciously looked amused at the whole situation. Maybe it was because the assumption she made all those months ago when John moved in to Baker Street and she offered them another bedroom had been proven right. "And you know how he yells when you're having a domestic." The detective seemed as if either he didn't hear, or he didn't care; which anyone who had spent an amount of 37 seconds in his company would know it was the latter.

Deeming it a lost cause, the ginger man spoke. "Even though I always enjoy having a front row seat at watching you make a total fool of yourself, brother dear; I'd rather not have to pick up the pieces after this goes awry." He stood and shook an invisible lint off his perfectly tailored suit. He gave a final pointed look at his brother and then raised his eyebrows. How the boffin detested those suggestive eyebrows, he regretted having failed at burning them that time he was six and his brother was sleeping.

Mrs. Hudson also left her seat, and intended to accompany his brother out the door. "Don't let him near the Chews, Mrs Hudson. He already broke his diet once this week." Not that he would care one way or the other, mind you. He just wanted to be left alone to do as he wished: which included two phone calls and his best suit.

Once he found the number of the venue, and deduced the annoying woman who answered, he was able to speak with a manager. "I'm afraid my brother had to leave the country unexpectedly, so I would like to change the name of the reservation." He spoke to the phone while cuffing his left sleeve. "Two tickets to the name of Sherlock Holmes."


	5. Date Surprise

Chapter 5: Date Surprise

The venue where the Gala took place was, in short, gigantic. And maybe a bit too posh for John's liking. When he took a girl out on the first date, he preferred somewhere more homely, where they could talk and have a good time. Also where photographers weren't snapping a picture of the two of them at the entrance. But he supposed it would be interesting to experience an event like this up close.

He wore his blue suit, that according to everyone brought out his eyes; Sherlock once had said they were the exact same shade of steel blue as the lips on a hypothermically conserved corpse, which the blogger was dubious to categorise as an insult or a compliment, Sherlock did like corpses, didn't he? Jessika had worn a red dress that hugged her figure just tight enough.

They mingled for a bit, but the blogger didn't particularly care for the people who approached them. They all seemed to want a piece of him, asking about Sherlock and if he had any gossip he wanted to share. Which of course, he didn't.

Once they'd settled on one of the tables, they engaged in small talk for a few moments. Jessika was really passionate about her profession, which was good. But appeared equally interested in John's "fame" for his assistance in the consulting detective career, which was bad. The doctor was not bothered by the idea of Sherlock and him being recognised by the press, he was secretly glad the detective got the recognition he deserved, but he was not a person who enjoyed talking about himself and how well-known he was for a prolonged period of time.

"Well, this is new. I've never been anywhere where they carried the food around on swords." He said, chuckling as one of the waiters strolled around them and waved a impaled meat at the table next to them. The event apparently had some sort of Brazilian theme. It was a bit ridiculous.

"I've been. And trust me, it's not as if they should be swinging those things around, I feel like I may loose an eye." Jessika was not thrilling, or specially fascinating, if anything a bit dim-witted, but she was charming enough and she could tell amusing remarks, so it was alright for John, who started choking in his glass of water from laughter and the bloke shot him an unamused glare.

"Best not to anger them, though. Or Sherlock will have a field day cataloguing sword injuries with my corpse." He joked.

He managed to remind himself of not thinking about the selfish posh six-foot-worth of sulking consulting detective he had left at home, who seemed to be decidedly brilliant, and interesting, and annoying, and just the right amount of arse-hole when the soldier was trying to ignore him. So he focused on eyeing what the Menu had in store for them that night.

John could hardly read all the foreign-language-written names and posh-sounding descriptions of the food he was expected to consume during their stay. And he suddenly felt himself missing Angelo's simple but perfectly prepared pasta and sauce. "I don't think I have ever tried any of these, I don't even recognise the names." He laughed and Jessika swung her glass of wine in agreement.

"I'm sure you have, they just probably didn't sound like tea with the queen when you did." Her laugh was interesting and a bit pitchy, and even though he was very fond of sarcastic humour, he realised there was something in the woman in front of him that lacked a bit of spark. Maybe that slight mocking tone which would have made the remark better. More entertaining. Just as he was about to answer with his own joke he heard something he wasn't supposed to listen here. For a second he thought he'd imagined it, but there it was, clear as day: Sherlock's low baritone voice. "John?" He said questioningly. _Fake_ questioningly. He could recognise that false tone from miles away.

"Oh please, no." He muttered under his breath. Please don't let it be Sherlock crashing my date. Again. He turned around and saw his idiot of a flatmate, wearing his best black suit, and his deep purple shirt, and it was just John's luck that he looked stunning. Like a greek statue. God, help him.

He approached the table and Jessika smiled at him. Not at all upset of watching the famous Sherlock Holmes standing in front of her, greeting her with pretended amiability. "Hey, if it isn't the consulting detective himself." She said.

Meanwhile, John just wanted the earth to rip apart and swallow him whole, or better yet, swallow the big giant arse next to him. "Mind if I join you?"

"Of course not, Sherlock. You can sit with us, right John?" She turned around excited. A bit too giddy for the soldier's mood to handle. She didn't realise it was all a ruse and not a coincidence.

"No." He said, and then proceeded to repeat the answer at least seven more times in a chant of " _no no no no no no no_ " as the detective gracefully sat down in the chair opposite of him and smirked. "He's just joking. Of course you can." Jessika flattened and looked at the blogger disapprovingly, although John didn't know if it was because of him denying his flatmate to crash his date or for the self-same flatmate's appearance.

"Why, thank you. This will be interesting." He tried the fake cheer once again, and damn he was really good for anyone who was not John.

The blogger shot daggers at Sherlock out of his eyes. And the detective just acted nonchalant, eyeing the doctor as if he was confused of his anger. As if he shouldn't be enraged about the fuckery he was doing. "Sir," He grabbed a waiter from his arm. "Could we have a round of toasted _Pão De Queijo_?" He asked in perfect Portuguese and John thought he might actually kill the man this time.


	6. Cold Shoulder

Chapter 6: Cold Shoulder

"So Sherlock, how is it that you happened to come here tonight. Of all places. On earth?" John was seething. Livid, even. Sherlock thought he looked quite amusing, how he would smile that enraged grin; it would have been highly scary, if the detective didn't happen to find it so endearing.

"I didn't know you were going to be here John, I must have deleted that part." The boffin lied, and he could see how the soldier did not believe him. He loved how easy John was to read sometimes, and yet, how he always managed to amaze him. "Mycroft provided the tickets."

"Still, I find it surprising that you would come; seeing as you hate any sort of social event." He was deliberately ignoring his date, too focused on berating the detective to even notice. Which was good, that meant she held no real importance to him whatsoever. It was going to be easier than he thought.

"Well, John. You're the one always saying how unpredictable I can be at times, aren't you?" He held the army doctor's eyes challenging. He knew he had dismissed the question entirely, but that was not a new trait in his personality, he was always avoiding the soldier's queries. He turned his head and "smiled" at the dancer who just giggled a bit in agreement, unaware of what was really happening. God, she was so vacant.

John took Jessika's laughter as an opportunity to lean close to Sherlock and asked him in a hushed voice. "What are you doing here?" His face was showing all signs of frustration and anger, and it was glorious. Sherlock was quickly storing every expression the doctor let pass by his face away in his mind palace.

"I," He started, as he nonchalantly looked at the Menu for the night. "Am on a date." He finished. Which was surprisingly true. Of course, his intentions may be tainted and selfish, but it _was_ a date nonetheless.

"A date?" The blogger, obviously not believing a single word of that sentence chuckled a bit, and then questioned with an ironic lilt "With whom?"

"Oh, hey guys." Came a slightly high pitched voice, definitely a woman, and one which John recognised right away. He saw confusion morph into surprise in the doctor's expression. Indignation and fury easily deducible. He was gaping at the scene in front of him.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Molly said taking off her coat. "But a new body arrived at the morgue and I had to make sure they wouldn't stuff it in the wrong place." The pathologist explained. And John couldn't decide which was worse, the fact that Sherlock was faking a date with the only intention of ruining John's, or that he dragged innocent Molly along his evil schemes.

The detective had to play nice with the brunette, since that would really help him make an statement. So, he took her coat and draped it around her chair. He didn't go as far as to pull her seat for her though, he wasn't that desperate.

Just as she was about to sit down, the doctor angled his head to his own date and announced. "Actually, I think I have to discuss in private something about a corpse with Molly," He stood up. "And Sherlock." He knew Jessika wouldn't particularly mind, and he didn't seem to care otherwise.

They shouldn't leave the table. Or the doctor would start asking questions he didn't want to answer just yet. He had to see how this date went before doing anything drastic. "Actually, I already had it figured out so you don't need to drag us away to-" However, he was interrupted by John shooting him the same look he did when the detective called Anderson -or practically everyone on the street- a complete moron, and said. "Shut it, and walk." With his Captain Watson's voice, which despite his best efforts, was highly difficult to refuse.

He sighed, as Molly looked horrified, Sherlock hadn't exactly given her any instructions on how to act, he just requested and she delivered, not even asking questions. As always; reliable, not nosy, Molly.

He threw his napkin on the table, starting to go into _sulk-mode_. Always a flair with the dramatics, his fat brother would say. This wasn't in the plan, and if they strayed, it could lead to John not realising what he wanted to say, and then proceeding to move out and leave the boffin forever. And if there was something Sherlock couldn't risk losing, not even for this, was John's friendship.

Jessika seemed highly confused by the whole exchange. But more amused than annoyed, which was in and of itself a relief to the blogger, who needed someone completely on his side tonight, and a disappointment to the detective who really wished she would just get mad and decided to go. It would make this fairly easier, since his final goal was to get John to stop dating -someone else- altogether.

They walked silently to the refreshments table and the soldier walked as if he was advancing to battle. Matter which was metaphorically true, seen from a non-subjective point of view. "One of you start talking, now." He ordered and Molly gasped a bit. Clearly not liking being interrogated.

"Well, I-" Sherlock was prepared to counterattack him, but was cut short when the voice of the blonde halted his excuses. "Not you." He said angrily, and directed his sight to the pathologist. Waiting for her to explain her involvement in the predicament.

"John, I know this looks really bad. But," She was fidgeting, nervously stumbling into her words, count on Molly to probably give his plan away. "Before you say anything: Sherlock offered me a deal that was too good to pass up. A date with Sherlock," She said, and John was looking at the detective seemingly disappointed, possibly because he dragged their friend into the mess, probably because he took advantage of the obvious school-girl crush she had on him, which by the blogger's books would classify as " _a bit not good_ ". "Front row seat drama, and he said he would clean up the beakers at Bart's for a month."

"A week." The curly-haired man, who was looking around deducing people on other tables, corrected. "A week," Molly amended shyly, "It was sort of a win-win-win." She finally finished.

John, apparently, couldn't stay mad with the innocent party. He probably thinks the detective manipulated her into doing everything. Which wasn't that far from the truth, but Molly could have always said "no". "Fine, you're forgiven, Molly." His face went completely soft for a few seconds, and the detective wished for a moment he was less of an arse so his blogger could look at him that way. "And you look lovely." He said gesturing the green dress she was wearing, and suddenly the boffin wasn't as fond of the pathologist anymore. "But you still owe me one."

"Thank you, John." She smiled shyly and Sherlock could tell she appreciated the attention, even thought it was coming in a strictly platonic wrapping.

"Now you," He turned towards the detective, demeanour quickly becoming more defensive. "Why do I feel as if the only reason you're here is to meddle in my social life?" He challenged.

The brunette scoffed. "Please, John. Don't be obtuse. I couldn't care less about your social life." He said offhandedly. And Molly seemed even more nervous. She knew this was probably not going to end up well.

"That's bollocks. If you didn't care, you wouldn't be here, Sherlock." The doctor looked remarkably confident of this statement, and if it wasn't a bad thing for Sherlock's plan, the musician would feel rather proud that his friend knew him and could read him so well. A thought appeared to pass through his face, and realisation showed remarkably well on his features, then he said. "Could it be that you're a bit jealous?"

The detective was taken aback by the accusation, not because he was outraged, but because practically all this time he had been denying it even to himself and now the army doctor had recognised it and thrown it at his face, and it somehow was not possible anymore to dismiss it and think it something - _anything_ \- else anymore. John had asked him if he was jealous, and he he couldn't be more right.

Thankfully for Sherlock, Jessika called their attention from their table, exclaiming something about having to eat their food with the assistance of bibs, and that gave him a proper shake and a few seconds to get his stoic mask back on again and quickly think of a right answer. Had he mention that possibly the only good trait this woman had was her impeccable timing?

"I'm not jealous John. Nor do I have the desire to engage in such boring behaviour, I'm hungry and I don't have a case." He said as calm and detached as he could manage, which was saying a lot. "Molly, care to share the buffalo with me?" And he stalked off back to the table, he had to prevent a remark like that from happening again, next time he might not be as effective in not giving himself away. If the truth slips out it would be to the doom of them all.

That left John and Molly alone for a second. And the doctor was seething. The pathologist looked uncertain of what to do, and blurted out the first and only thing which came into her mind. "He really _is_ jealous, you know?" And the doctor didn't need to know that right now. He just wanted the stupid arse over their table to somehow disappear. He turned around and gave her a glare as in saying "Not helping" and that made Molly gasp and walk away to their table. Well, two can play the game. This was going to be quite a night.


	7. That Thing You Do

Chapter 7: That Thing You Do

Even if he was irritated beyond belief, Sherlock had to give it to her, Molly had an almost insatiable appetite. She had already devoured her entire meal, and was currently in process of assisting him to finish what he had failed to ingest. Although if he really thought about it, pushing the food on his plate gave him at least something to do while Jessika rambled on and on about her dancing.

"So, I was spinning so fast, and the music was so intense that I lost track of the choreography," She said flapping her hands about, explaining excitedly. However, on a more important matter, the doctor was violently sticking his food on his fork, gazing angrily at the detective across the table, almost ignoring his date completely. "I ended up doing a Straight Leg Scorpion at the end, which wasn't scripted at all."

At this opportunity the soldier seemed to come back to life again and asked her, faking interest. "Wow, a Straight Leg Scorpion? I heard those are really difficult." He ended his cheer, and turned to the boffin with a smug smirk, knowing how much it would irritate him knowing John was praising Jessika -of course, it would have the sam effect on anyone who was not him-. The detective in question rolled his eyes and huffed an exasperated breath. John counted that as a small victory.

"Yeah," She said blushing. "But, of course I have to follow the program by the letter, so I apologised to the audience at the end." She smiled proudly. As if doing something better than expected was something to be ashamed about and apologising for it after was the only thing to do to appease her guilt. If that were true, the detective would have to be saying "sorry" every time he opened his mouth. What a tedious woman she is.

"You know," John started, and the musician could see the evil clogs on his mind turning, he was one hundred percent sure this was somehow going to be directed at himself. "It is so refreshing to hear about someone who is so in touch and even does art with her body." He finished, and he hoped Sherlock would get the reference at his self-imposed state of " _my body is just transport_ ".

"I know a thing or two about dancing." He retorted. "Might sometime prove useful for a case." This was information that he had never shared before, but he was willing to do it for the sake of the cause. Winning John's admiration was one step closer for what he wanted to achieve.

"Yeah, like pacing around while murdering the violin? Most graceful." He replied while swinging one noodle in front of his face and then proceeding on throwing it to him. Noodle which hit him right across the face. Everyone in the table stared at the curly-haired man in surprise, and Molly was just failing miserably at stifling a laugh. That's what did it, he refused to become the joke of the evening. In one elegant move, he threw his napkin on the table and stood up.

His companions looked bewildered for a moment, and he was sure he saw a hint of alarm in Jessika's eyes as he started to ask the people on the adjacent tables to stand up so he could push their table a few meters over, creating a small table-free circle of clear two meters of diameter.

He then, resumed to stand at the middle of said space and executed one of the most common moves in ballet which required incredible technique and impressive balance: a perfect double Pirouette.

Some of the guest in the proximity clapped and cheered a bit, and Molly and Jessika seemed impressed enough. "That was incredible!" The pathologist stated, as Sherlock did an amused and smug bow to his impromptu audience. Gloating in the praise as it was in his _show-off_ nature. John would have been really charmed and would have even gone as far as claiming it "Amazing" as one of the commonly impressive deductions, had he not been in the situation in which he found himself, instead all he could do was scowl and wish it to be over.

The admittedly good ballet dancer returned to their table and nonchalantly said, "That's my definition of: Artistic." He smiled innocently at the doctor, who didn't appear prepared to put up with any of his antics.

"Really? Because that's _my_ definition of desperate." John Hamish Watson Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers knew how to use words to get chill up upon your bones, and it seemed he would not hesitate in using said skill to meet his interests.

Thankfully the world's only consulting detective was not intimidated by his blogger's tone, if anything he found it surprisingly attractive. "So is the amount of cologne you applied for Miss Jazz over here." And he signalled Jessika with his silver/green/ _seriously-what-colour-are-they?_ eyes. This clearly drove John over the edge, and made him rest his bib on the table and stand up defiantly. "Okay, that's enough." He sneered and snatched a meat impaled sword from a waiter nearby. And presented it menacingly at his flatmate.

"Be careful if you eat that, we don't want your psychosomatic limp to return." The detective muttered amused as he gazed up flirty from his seat to a clearly livid doctor. The whole table around them gasped at the challenge and turned back and forth to each one of them desperately searching for the reaction.

"Oh, I'm not planning on eating it, I'm planning on feeding it to you, Mr. I don't know the Solar System." John responded evenly, like cold fire. The two ladies were stunned, and you could hear the collective "oh!" coming out of a few mouths on the tables around them. Molly gaped amusedly at his blonde friend as if not believing he had actually said that. Sherlock's smirk quickly turned into an outraged frown, and he glared at his friend in return. He stood up and forcefully grabbed another sword from a half afraid/half impressed man. When he turned around to face John he stretched and grew to his prominent height, almost a head above his contender. The soldier, however, didn't seemed too frightened by the sight and instead welcomed it as a battlefield. This war would be one for the books.

"Get ready to enjoy what is apparently some _Frango Caril Com Coco_." Even in this circumstances, he couldn't help but showing off his fluent Portuguese. This appeared to infuriate the doctor even further and both of them drew their swords and were ready to take a swing at the other when someone stop them.

"Please, stop!" Molly yelled, and it seemed to do the trick as it instantly got them out of the rage-induced trance. They both turned to watch her with a mixture between annoyed resentment and reluctant gratefulness. "Don't do anything you might regret." She said in a much gentler tone, as one would use when dealing with a cross child.

They lowered their weapons and placed them in a tray nearby, John turned to look at Jessika and sternly said. "We're going home, now." His date did not seem as impress as she should, but there was a resentful tinkle in her eye when she glanced back at the curly-haired man as she sighed, like he had completely ruined the whole evening, which he might as well have; but that was the plan though, "Alright." She replied and searched for her purse as John took out his mobile, phoning the cab service surely. "Molly, see to it that this bastard at least pays for your cab." He hissed as he forcefully grabbed his date by the wrist and all but dragged her out of the venue.

Now, standing next to the pathologist with only silence and the memory of his blogger's disappointed glare -which shouldn't hurt as much as it did- to accompany him: he realised in retrospective, that making John angry with him, may not have been the best idea.


	8. Frantic Romantic

Chapter 8: Frantic Romantic

At the end, Sherlock did pay for Molly's fare rather reluctantly. He let her go, but not before she gave him one of her characteristic looks letting him know he had made a terrible miscalculation. Then, he took a cab of his own. Arriving at Baker Street before John -who clearly had accompanied his date back to her house- and slamming the door after entering. The blogger would possibly be planning on spending the night at Jessika's flat to teach him a lesson -or to just get away from him- but either way, it's atrocious to think the night had gone so horribly _wrong_.

He bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and reached the landing fairly quick. Anger was seething through his pores. He had been so sure that today would end up with John and himself in their way to a relationship, or at least to John staying away from that woman. But it all had gone south and now he probably ruined everything he had with his blogger, even their friendship. It was a very difficult thought to process for the detective, for Sherlock had always been bad with sentiment and emotions; so he did what he always did in such cases: replace it with ice.

"I'm never allowing this "sentiment" to happen again." He muttered as he was prancing through the kitchen, leaving his coat on the floor as he went. He heard the front door open and close with fury. So John _had_ come home. He quickly sneaked past the corridor and made it to his bedroom as he heard the doctor's angry stomps reach the kitchen entrance. "If he thinks he can tell _me_ what to _do_ -" He cursed under his breath.

"Sherlock, get out here!" He yelled with a blend of his military voice and his t _his-time-I'm-not-dropping-this_ tone. Sherlock knew then: he was doomed. He growled an _"I'm coming!"_ and unwillingly dragged himself across the corridor and got to the kitchen.

"What's the problem?" He said sarcastically. Picking at the end of one of his shirt sleeves nonchalantly.

"Don't ask me 'what's the problem?' all innocently, like you don't know what's the bloody problem!" He said slamming his keys on the table next to the skull. His fist clenched at his sides and his nostrils were all but expending smoke. Sherlock had to give it to him, he could be really scary when he wanted. "I don't know how someone can be so conceited, and selfish and such a..." He paused looking for an eloquent word to describe what the arse in front of him was acting like. "A cock!"

This, however, did not seemed to hurt the detective, who probably already knew what he was, but he did appear rather offended at the clearly hypocritical nature of John's statement. "Don't act like such a saint John, it's unbecoming of you. You, are: stubborn," He began to gesture with his fingers as if counting. Walking around in the clear area and with John following his every step as if he did not want him to disappear into thin air before he got a chance to punch him. "Oblivious and completely charming!" He ended with a flourish.

When he turned around, his blogger had stopped pacing and was looking at him strangely, like something didn't quite fit. "Charming?" He asked, and the boffin couldn't really follow the statement, not knowing what they were talking about anymore. "What?" Sherlock queried, and continued walking the length of the small room. Clearly exasperated with the ridiculousness of the situation.

"You said I was bloody charming!" John alleged. Confusion written all over his features. He let his hands grip the bridge of his nose in annoyance. The blonde whirled around to keep following the trace of the mad detective.

"I meant endearing!" The other man responded and walked to a halt almost making the soldier behind him bump with him for the sudden change of pace. "So endearing you make me sick."

"Oh, I'm sorry." John sarcastically stated. Clearly infuriated with the road they were traveling: which made small amount of sense. "If I'm so sickeningly endearing why did you come to the sodding ceremony tonight?" He questioned. And raised an eyebrow daring his flatmate to get a word edgewise.

"Why would you go out with Jessika?" The silver-gazed counter-attacked. "She's the dullest of the lot, John!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air and grimaced, as if his friend date's simplicity personally offended him.

"Because I like her!" Okay, so maybe John was stretching the word "like" a bit, but he would ignore the weight of technicalities for the sake of the argument. "Isn't that how it works Sherlock? Two people who like each other go out and have fun?"

"What about when you and I go out and have fun together?" His fingernails where already scratching at his left arm, as they always did whenever he was anxious. Why couldn't John just stop acting like Anderson and keep up with what he was saying? "Has your little mind ever thought about that?" Bitterness painted each word.

"What!?" Why were they suddenly talking about this? That had always been the elephant in the room, and the blogger couldn't see why the detective would decide to bring that up just now.

"I don't want to compromise everything you and I don't have together!" Sherlock offered as a way of explanation. And surely the doctor would be able to get it now, or he was overestimating him.

"That makes absolutely no bloody sense!" He closed his fist and slam it on the kitchen table beside him. The older man thought it to be surprisingly illogical coming from Sherlock, he had never heard his flatmate abandon reason like that before.

"This sort of things usually don't make sense." He spoke softly, as if trying to make a child understand. He just wanted John to get his act together and just use his stupid head. The only way he could be more clear was if he spelled it out to him.

"What sort of things?" The blonde asked confused and frustrated. He just wanted his lunatic flatmate to stop being so mysterious and say what he really meant. However, before he could even end his final word the detective across him had sighed exasperated and stepped forward grabbing John by the back of his neck. Sealing both their lips together.

John was completely frozen and taken aback by the action; and even if the musician initiated it, he looked rather surprised he had actually dared to do it as well. The kiss was chaste and awkward and far too short as both men were trying to get a grip and figure out what to make of the electric shock that went through them when their faces collided.

They broke off frightened, neither of them knowing exactly what had happened, or if it actually had and they hadn't just hallucinated it all. They stared at each other for what felt like hours, but might as well just had been minutes, and tried to read in the other's gaze the answers to interrogations neither of them knew they were asking.

In the end John, beautiful, brave, practical John, broke the silence first, and the curly-haired man was infinitely grateful he didn't have to. "I think I finally get it." He said softly, almost inaudible, while the boffin couldn't do anything more than stand -and even with that he was threatening to fail- and look at him. "And I shall see you tomorrow." The soldier said with a zombie quality attached to his movements, he looked like an automaton, a robot just going through the motions so mindlessly that his best friend would have laughed had he not been in a catatonic state himself.

The blogger grabbed the skull and turned around to start making his way for his bedroom. He, however, stopped once he realised the mistake and returned to exchange Billy for his keys and retreated slowly to his own quarters putting an end to the awkward situation for both their sakes, leaving Sherlock standing alone in the middle of their kitchen.

Confusion was evident and Sherlock's mind was in a rut. Helplessly stuck into the same track over and over again like a broken record. He took a few breaths to calm himself down and try to sit on one of the chairs available. Apparently, motor skills do not function when one is this entranced, as he missed his target completely and ended up sitting on their kitchen floor.


	9. Chasing The Dream

Chapter 9: Chasing The Dream

As it was expected, neither of the men got to even get a tiny bit of sleep that night. Both replaying the events of the day and sorting through their respective insecurities and apprehensions. Sheltering in each of their rooms and refusing to come out in fear of encountering the other in the hallway or sitting room.

Even if he hadn't felt rejection from John, the detective suddenly experienced a pang of anxiety as he remembered gazing into the eyes of the other man, what if he just ruined everything? This was exactly what he was trying to avoid and he couldn't conjure up what had possessed him to risk it.

He decided he was never going to fix anything sitting inside of his quarters making up different scenarios. He had to set his mind in something else. Distract his brain before he drove himself insane. He carefully opened his door and padded out to the kitchen. Once he deemed the coast clear, he stalked over his chair and pulled out his violin. As soon as the instrument was under his chin he already felt more relaxed, like he could think a bit clearer.

He played for a little while until he heard soft steps cautiously coming down the stairs. Once John had crossed the door, he put the bow off the strings and resumed to place his violin inside its case.

"Good morning." John said. Clearly a bit more at ease than last night, but still quite reserved, as if he had resolved to fight through this problem but was nonetheless afraid of how things would play out. That uncertainty calmed the detective a little bit, at least John didn't intend to make a run for it for now -for _later_ , only time would tell-.

"Good morning." He responded as casual as he could, which still came out as completely frightened.

"So..." The blogger began, but trailed off as he couldn't conjure up what to say. He hadn't planed on what words to speak when he steeled himself to get out of his room. His plan reached up until getting to the last step of the stairs, and even that had already seemed ambitious for then.

"So..." Responded the genius, and then mentally kicked himself for acting so stupidly. Since when did he drained his brain and opted for just repeating everything his flatmate said?

"Yesterday." The blogger started. Not knowing how to label the incident of the night prior. He hesitates, and waits for his friend to acknowledge he knew what they were talking about. Praying he wouldn't have to elaborate.

"Yes?" Sherlock responded expectantly. As if urging John to continue. Looking eagerly throughout his face, looking for clues and evidence to form a proper deduction, which his mind was apparently still too caught up in a loop to do.

"Did you really mean it?" He said after sighing, just spitting it out. "You really want this?" He gestured vaguely between himself and the detective. As if any specification of their feelings other than absolutely necessary would burn him. At least he was managing to say more than one word.

Sherlock was grateful of the soldier's articulation with sentiment. Yes, the situation was beyond awkward and embarrassing for both of them, but at least he was talking, which was more than what the boffin could say about himself. After what he did yesterday, he doubted he would ever act so fearlessly about sentiment again. It had been an adrenaline-induced once in a lifetime incident. Not because he didn't want to, but because had John just decided to shrug the entire night off and forget it, had he not followed him and demanded an explanation, and had Sherlock not lost himself in the heat of the moment, he was sure he would have never dared.

"Yes." He responded honestly. More honest than he had ever been.

"Good. That's good." His blogger relaxed significantly and took a few steps towards his flatmate. "I want it too." And he saw as Sherlock's face was letting go some of the apprehension. Good, he preferred when his detective wasn't riled up.

"So are we...?" Sherlock asked innocently even thought he already knew the answer. He just wanted to make one hundred percent sure there won't be any misunderstandings. Hurt feelings would ruin both their lives, and they would not just lose the renting of a flat together, or the running through London chasing a criminal, they would lose the friendship both of them had worked so hard to build and keep.

"A couple?" The doctor guessed. Somehow amazed that he was actually having this conversation where everything would change, a moment in their lives that would be carved out in stone for the rest of the eternity.

Sherlock is almost overcome with emotion as he hears John say that word, and he was glad to realise the emotion was not nervousness anymore, but the situation had an air of hilarity on its importance. Both men laughed at themselves and the curly-haired just nodded his affirmative.

"Yes, yes, I believe we are." And John Watson grinned the biggest smiled he had probably grinned since he found out Sherlock had finally gotten rid of those hazardous rotting thumbs that had been sitting in their fridge for months.

"John, what we...what we did...last night. It was...good." The tall man tried to ascertain, he would definitely have to research some things about relationships if he wanted to be able to express his thoughts to his now boyfriend and not make a fool of himself and stutter like that again.

John chuckled a bit, and the boffin soon joined in, they should have done this ages ago. God, they were idiots. "I do believe we need a bit of practice though." He smirked and watched as the younger man's eyes widened with surprise and glimmered with interest at the idea. "Come here." And even after saying that, the blogger was the one quick enough to close the distance and kiss the detective properly this time.

They adjusted into a technique after a few bumps and errors and were soon kissing each other passionately. John with both hands on the detective's waist, and said genius grabbing a fistful of his blogger's rumpled shirt, holding on for dear life.

After a few more minutes of full-on snogging -thing which Sherlock hadn't done since uni- they decided to take a breath. Sherlock, being who he is, took an opportunity to say something. Something clever which would let John know exactly what he thought of everything that had passed. Instead he ended up saying. "I think I finally have something to thank Mycroft for."

It didn't seem to matter though, because John laughed. Hard. Apparently it had worked better than anything else could, so Sherlock couldn't help but being dragged along and giggled too. "You do that." John assured him once the laughs had somewhat calmed. He brushed one stray curl from his boyfriend's face and remarked.

"But for the record, if you ever bring up Mycroft while we're snogging again, I'm leaving you." He said without malice and soon they were overcome with a fit of joy and mirth that they both had to sit on the floor of the flat's sitting room.

"Agreed." The detective said between stifled laughter.


	10. Keeping It Real

Epilogue: Keeping It Real

"And that's why-" Sherlock said after having hopped off the ceiling vent onto which he was hanging a second before. "The murder weapon was here instead of in the third floor." He produced a bloodied banana and showed it around to further prove his point.

"Amazing." The doctor said while holding his friend's -boyfriend's now- coat and gloves. Sometimes John couldn't believe the ridiculousness of some murders. And neither could he ever get used to seeing Sherlock so in his element and figuring out each of their schemes. "Absolutely amazing." He praised just as he knew his detective liked it.

"Thank you." Sherlock allowed a smile to paint over his face as he stared at the man he could call his since three days ago. It was a short time for a relationship to be this deep, but they both felt they had lost enough time dancing around the edges.

"I need you and Gorge to interrogate the suspect." The musician said to John, and both, the detective inspector and Sally, could hear something was different between the two men. There seemed to be a certain giddiness among them.

"It's Greg." He chided in. He couldn't believe he had worked with Sherlock for more than seven years now and the man could still not learn his first name.

"And since when do you pass on an opportunity to interview the possible murderer?" Donovan added. For her, the situation was already too childish to deal with. After this, she would demand a raise from her boss, a big one.

"Since I need them to distract her while I sneak through the back door." He responded Sally with a slight curve at the corners of his lips. Which was odd enough for the officer to pull a face at him. Act which clearly brought the detective back to the present and resumed to scowl at her as if she had insulted him. That was more like it.

"No." Greg assured him. "I'm not letting you do that." He said, to no avail because the silver-gazed man had apparently already moved on from answering questions and had resolved that it will be done, with or without his help.

"Are you sure about this?" John said a bit concerned. He never liked it when they had to separate while on cases, because he knew that if something ever happened to the consulting detective and he was not there to defend him, he would completely and irrationally place the guilt on himself.

"Yes." He answered confidently. And it was everything his blogger needed. He trusted the musician with his life and if he said it was necessary then he will do everything he could.

"Well, then." John smiled fondly at him. "Let's go." He was ready for the fight to begin. Just the two of them against the rest of the world. Oh, and he guessed Lestrade could come too. "See you when we catch her." He said.

"The game is on!" The younger man remarked excited, and then something that neither Greg nor Sally ever expected, happened. Both men took a step towards the other and sealed their lips in a quick and chaste kiss goodbye.

They were astonished to say the least, and just kept staring at the two of them beginning to walk in different directions only to return and exchange the items in their hands -John, his clothes, and Sherlock, the evidence- and proceed stalking off, away from each other with a stupid grin on their faces.

The inspector was actually glad for his friends -or would be, once he gets over the shock- but the only thing he managed to do was ask. "Did we miss something?"


End file.
